"Invaders: The Story of the 50th Troop Carrier Wing" is
a small booklet covering the history of the 50th Troop Carrier Wing. This
booklet is one of the series of
G.I. Stories
published by the Stars & Stripes in Paris in 1944-1945.

This is one of a series of G.I. Stories of the Ground, Air and
Service Forces in the European Theater of Operations, issued
by the Stars and Stripes, a publication of the Information and
Education Division, Special and Information Services ETOUSA...
Brigadier General Julian M. Chappell, commanding the 50th Troop
Carrier Wing, lent his cooperation to the preparation of the
pamphlet, and basic material was supplied to the editors by his staff.

T

he
development of Troop Carrier from a
novel scheme on paper to a significant
factor in Allied strategy has been in no small
measure the story of the 50th Wing. The
growth from a unit with but a score of non-descript
aircraft to the highly-skilled,
tactically-important legions of our present
organization has been achieved only through the
constant effort and perseverance of every man
of this command—pilot or clerk, airplane
mechanic or cook's helper. All are part of the team which has
delivered troops and supplies defiant of flak and weather—when and
where it hurt the enemy most. No matter what commitments,
the future may bring, the slogan of the Fightin' Fiftieth will
stand. "It will be flown by us!"

Julian M. ChappellBrigadier
General, Commanding

THE STORY OF THE 50TH TROOP CARRIER WING

N

ORMANDY,
June 6, 1944: when Serial Leader Col.
Charles H. Young flipped the switch to give the
green light to the 50th Wing's first paratrooper over the
target north of Carentan—hours before the seaborne
invasion began—he brought to culmination long months
of preparation. Months of getting men and machines
ready for the job ahead, months of maneuvers in the
States and in England, months of endless planning,
training, waiting, now were going to pay off.

Detailed plans had been laid, altered, checked and
rechecked. Here, finally, was the test: to spearhead the
Allied drive into the Nazis' "invasion-proof" Fortress
Europe.

Shortly before midnight, D minus 1, the Wing's
200-oddC-47s waited close-packed on the longest
runways of their south England bases, engines idling
impatiently.

At last, zero hour. The first Skytrain, marked like
the others with alternate white and black invasion stripes,
loaded to capacity with smudge-faced Airborne troops
bent with equipment, struggled off the runway and circled
slowly as the others joined the formation.

The flight turned, outlined against the full moon, and
disappeared into the cloudless night as Lt. Vincent J.
Paterno, Lyndhurst, N.J., and fellow navigators took
over, computing ground speeds and drift, looking eagerly
ahead for check-points. Wingmen saw their first hostile
fire when German batteries on the Channel Islands poured
streams of tracer fire in a vain effort to reach the Troop
Carrier armada.

Breaking out at 700 feet, now only miles from the
target, the "Flying Cabbies" found the heavens alive
with red and green tracers arching towards them
through finger-like searchlight beams.

"There was so much flak and so many tracers flying
around and so many planes in the air that it seemed
impossible for any of us to be missed," spoke
Lt. Forrest D. Hamm, Baraboo, Wis. "And I was scared, very
scared. But I could only crouch a little lower in the
cockpit and keep going. Surprising thing was that most
of us came through unscathed."

Only three craft fell to enemy fire before discharging
their loads of aerial soldiers.

Ground fire made check points unrecognizable, but
careful and thorough route briefing combined with superb
navigation, brought most of the planes in on drop zones
well marked by the Airborne's own pathfinder troops.
Nearly 80 percent of the troops and supply bundles
landed within the pair of mile-square DZs.

Lt. Marvin Muir, Elkhart, Ind., was flying the lead
in an element of the 439th Group when his ship, hit by
enemy fire, burst into flames only two and a half minutes
from the drop area. Although forced to leave the
formation, he stuck to his post, battling the controls to
accomplish his mission effectively and to drop his paratroopers
in the assigned DZ. In a vain effort, he tried
to crash-land the flaming plane hoping to save the
trapped crew. To Lt. Muir went a posthumous Distinguished
Service Cross for extraordinary heroism in action.
" *** His devotion to duty, heroism, and service above
self reflect great credit upon himself and the armed
forces of the United States."

Maj. Lloyd G. Neblett, Texarkana, Tex., nearly missed
the big show when mechanical difficulty forced him to
drop out at the start, but his crew chief, Sgt. Willie Brown,
Asheville, N.C., did a rush job.

The Major took off again, cut corners at full speed,
caught the formation just short of the objective. But
his troubles weren't over—a heavy supply bundle from
another ship landed squarely on his right wing. Struggling
with the controls, he and Co-Pilot Lt. Thomas
O'Brien, St. Paul, Minn., kept the plane from stalling
while paratroopers were discharged; from 600 feet the
aircraft fell out of control through a flak barrage that
sheared eight feet off the wing and a third of the aileron.
The plane's fall finally was checked at house-top level,
and flying alone, returned safely to 441st Group base.

Hearing the bail-out bell, Crew Chief John J. O'Conner,
Mosinee, Wisc., dived after the last trooper, only to watch
his plane fly on, unharmed. After two weeks' fighting
with the Airborne and being captured at an advanced aid
station, the Sergeant returned to his squadron to learn
the "abandon ship" order was just a case of the wrong
switch.

Capt. Russell Hennicke (then Lt.), Las Vegas, Nev.,
made his run-in and return to an English base on a single
engine. "He never could get more than three feet over
the Channel all the way back," reported Sgt. John Brown,
Ajo, Ariz., crew chief of another C-47 in the 440th Group.
"His crew threw out everything and anything to keep
the ship in the air." After his own plane, Ain't It Awful,
wobbled in on one wheel, Brown commented, "Yeah,
but it could have been a lot worse."

Lt. John Prince, Cherokee, Iowa, didn't have even one
engine left in his plane; he was forced to land "deadstick"
in the darkness of Normandy's tree-lined hedgerows.
The Lieutenant's cool skill set the crew down safely, got
them away with enough emergency supplies to return
to friendly lines.

Krauts agreed with the name of Lt. Col. (then Maj.)
Kenneth L. Glassburn's ship You Cawn't Miss It. They
knocked out an engine and set the plane afire. Flames
spread rapidly, but rather than risk capture by bailing out
over enemy territory, the squadron commander from
Turlock, Calif., flew the blazing aircraft to the Normandy
coast, ditched in the Channel. When no report was
received at the base, his first sergeant, Harold A. McGrath,
Yonkers, N.Y., picked him up the third day on the
morning report as missing in action, remarking to the
adjutant, "I dreamed of the boss last night. He bawled
the daylights out of me for doing this." Ten minutes
later a phone call disclosed the safe arrival in England of
the Major and his crew.

Skytrains Spearhead an Invasion

F

IRST
traces of dawn scarcely had streaked across the
dark morning sky when the lead C-47 eased the slack
from the tow-rope, and the Wing's first glider destined
for combat jolted, started to roll and went down the
runway with a rush. This was June 7, D plus 1. Two
by two, tow-ships and gliders moved off into the haze.
As the last glider rose from the runway, the cavalcade of
American CG-4s and British Horsas wheeled from sight.

When the three-minute warning blinked back from the
astral dome of each tow-plane, glider pilots could see
the flash of flooded land ahead—a flash that meant danger.

Tow-ships suddenly zoomed into fast diving turns,
and tow-ropes floated down among fat Normandy cattle
as glider after glider lifted and floated free. Moving
into pattern, GPs for the first time saw the hedgerows of
France—lines of poplars, 30 to 50 feet tall, ringing many
small fields. Practice landings at Stuttgart, Lubbock and
Maxton flashed back during the few seconds left to choose
the best spot for landing the heavy loads of infantry,
jeeps, mortars and shells.

Wheels washed out in foxholes, wings splintered against
heavy stakes driven into fields, small arms fire thudded
against fabric sides and tails, whining 88s zeroed in on
nearby crossroads.

"Most amazing thing I saw," said 2nd Lt. (then F/O)
Norman J. Thompson, San Antonio, Tex., on his return
from Normandy, "was a good-looking girl nonchalantly
riding a bicycle down the middle of the road as I came
coasting in with my CG-4. Maybe that was Hitler's
secret weapon."

Although there were several casualties during the
mass landings, 100 gliders were committed and as many
placed in the landing zone. Congratulations poured in
from Troop Carrier Command and other headquarters.
Most appreciated expression was heard in a London
pub several weeks later. A stocky Airborne sergeant
wearing a new Purple Heart stopped one of the
Wing's GPs to say, "Lemme shake your hand. You
guys got guts."

The invasion was spearheaded successfully with Troop
Carrier, the 50th at the fore, but much remained to be
done. Isolated airborne units still had to be supplied;
even after a complete link-up, priority items would have
to go by air.

On another aerial supply mission to the
101st, a 442nd
crew chief, T/Sgt. John Nick, Passaic, N.J., earned a
Distinguished Flying Cross. As supplementary "door
bundles" of supplies were pushed out the opened cabin
door after pararacks had been salvoed, a shroud line fouled
in the glider pick-up bar and opened the 'chute. The
heavy bundle started to swing violently against the tail,
making control difficult, landing dangerous.

After vain attempts to shake the bundle loose, Sgt.
Nick volunteered to free the entangled lines. Hanging
head-down from the doorway while crew members held
his ankles, he swayed in the slip-stream grasping for the
shrouds. The swinging parcel threatened at any moment
to knock him from the craft. Finally, reaching the
fouled lines, the sergeant cut them; the bundle descended
into the drop zone.

By June 20, the Wing's planes were landing vital
supplies directly on temporary "tarpaper" strips built by
Airborne Engineers. On the return trip that day pilots
became "flying ambulance drivers," evacuating almost 300
wounded to hospitals in the U.K.

Ground called for more shells and fuses. Immediately,
50th Wing responded. On June 24, 233 aircraft carried
more than 1,000,000 pounds of munitions to France.

"Fightin' 50th" Delivers Kayo Punch

T

HE
real power of Troop Carrier in global war—ability
to strike a knockout punch when and where needed—was
demonstrated in the invasion of southern France.
What if the Riviera coast was too far for an airborne
invasion from England? Do it from Italy!

Time was mid-July; place was England. Orders came
to mount cabin gas tanks in planes of three of each Group's
four squadrons and to load 30-day supplies. Forty-eight
hours later, 50th Wing with 200 C-47s, 400 glider pilots
and a minimum of administrative personnel were setting
up fields near Rome. Rank was forgotten as everyone
rolled up sleeves to dig in. At advanced Wing headquarters,
Lt. Col. Frank G. McCormick, former University
of Minnesota athletic director, and his Intelligence
section chief, T/Sgt. John Schmidlin, former Bridgeport,
Conn., fire fighter, turned out fried steaks and flapjacks
for the first two meals under cloudless blue Italian skies.

Ravages of war, still audible to the north, had smashed
the regular communications system beyond use. A
hurried call to home base brought a dozen signal men
under Lt. George Perry, New York City. But telephone
lines went out almost as fast as they were
established. Civilian sabotage was one reason. Linemen
who "borrowed" complete sections of wire for their own
lines was another. At first nearly all contact between
Groups was by radio. A small landing strip was
constructed hastily near Wing headquarters at Orbetello, and
an L-5 liaison plane was pressed into service as courier
among the several units.

At the week's end, evacuation and supply flights were
being flown within Italy, and all units were declared ready
for paradrops. Gliders ferried in from assembly stations
near Naples were maintained and repaired by pilots in
the absence of crew chiefs left in England.

The King of England and high Allied army officers
were given a salute at the month's end by a Wing
assembly of 153 planes. Even then, remaining aircraft were
on evacuation missions, flying some of the 4600 patients
carried in Italy by 50th Wing planes in addition to
transporting half a million pounds of freight.

N

AVIGATORS
carried the ball during the first half of
the Wing's second combat mission Aug. 15 when
an overcast blotted out check points. Stick after stick
of troopers were released "blind" over the target area
near Le Muy to break out, in most cases, within a mile
or two of the briefed area.

The plane of Crew Chief T/Sgt. Mario V. Pissaro,
White Plains, N.Y., caught fire on the take-off and
crash-landed at the field's edge. With a leg broken, the
sergeant opened the cargo door to free paratroopers and crew
from certain death. The aircraft also was carrying a
heavy load of ammunition and land mines.

C-47 work-horses returned to the eternal dust cloud
hanging over unsurfaced fields and reloaded to fly the
second phase of the operation. Behind each trailed a
cargo glider laden with jeeps and other heavy equipment
to reinforce parachute troops.

A pall of dense black smoke from fires started by Navy
salvoes clung above forests surrounding the target, the
Argens Valley, 20 miles inland.

The "gentle, rolling terrain" of Riviera hill-country
turned out to be mountains and canyons; as in Normandy,
many the fields had been "staked" by the enemy.
Most loads were retrieved undamaged from the crash-landed
"Hadrians."

Summing up the overall operation, Lt. Gen. Ira C.
Eaker, commanding the Mediterranean Air Force, said:
"You Troop Carrier people put up a grand show."
Maj. Gen. Paul L. Williams added his tribute to all the
personnel in the drive—administrative and tactical, pilot
and file clerk, all part of the team—which made the mission
possible in these words:

Results ... surpass even our most optimistic
expectation ... You have spearheaded another thrust at the
heart of the enemy which has brought the free peoples of
the world one step closer to total victory ... My congratulations
and appreciation to each member of your
command regardless of his role, for it has required a
one hundred percent effort to achieve today's success.

One glider and tow-plane from the 440th Group made
a solo trip into the southern France LZ. When the
tow-rope broke, Lt. Marion L. Clem, Barnsdall, Okla.,
made a forced landing a few miles after take-off; a truck
from the field immediately retrieved both personnel and
equipment, returned them to the air-strip shortly after
the tow-plane landed. With frantic effort, a spare glider
was wheeled into position, loaded, hooked up with a
new cable. Although the formation already was over
the LZ, the glider, towed by Lt. Arthur Douglass, New
Orleans, took off for France alone. When he returned
hours behind the others, the Lieutenant reported the
glider safely landed in the proper location.

Airborne Invasion: New Era in Warfare

B

ACK in
England, remaining Wing planes were assembled
into a Provisional Group headed by Lt. Col. Robert
G. Minick, Manhasset, N.Y., veteran command pilot
with 14,000 hours, and with Lt. Col. William H. Parkhill,
Middletown, Pa., 441st Group Commander as Executive
Officer. Double glider tows were added to training
schedules as day and night practice missions with a
Polish airborne unit got underway.

Plans were laid, field orders cut, gliders marshalled and
loaded. Crews were pre-briefed for airborne support
of Lt. Gen. George S. Patton's assault on Paris and
unprecedented landings in the Rambouillet area, aimed
at seizing the airport and blocking the escape of the
German Seventh Army to the southeast. Gen. Patton,
however, switched into high and beat Troop Carrier
to the LZs, overrunning them on D-Day.

To keep Third Army rolling was a tremendous job.
Seven hundred tons of gasoline, rations and 105mm
ammunition were flown to advanced air-strips just behind
the front. The freight haul total for August was boosted
to almost 4,000,000 pounds. In addition, more than
11,000 battle casualties and 2500 other patients were
flown by Wing aircraft and attended by nurses and non-coms
of the 50th's two Medical Air Evacuation Squadrons.

Much credit for these startling figures goes to
airstrip control parties operated under Lt. Col. Minick
and Capt. Sidney Kay, Cottageville, W.Va., Wing Chemical
Officer. Complete radio facilities were taken in by
gliders under the supervision of M/Sgt. Frank Swiadek,
Long Island City, N.Y. Lt. Karl Gantert, Rialto, Calif.,
went along to handle message encoding and decoding.

Radio Operator Sgt. Robert T. Hood, Glendale, Calif.,
has vivid memories of the assignment that took him into
France by glider on the heels of advancing American armor.

I had about two hours to throw my gear together and
get to the take-off field. We hardly got there when
we were put on an already overloaded glider sagging
at the seams. All the way over I felt like a blood
brother to all the guys who made the one-way trip to
the guillotine.

The German lines were about two miles from the
field where we set up, and the field was lousy with shell
and bomb craters. We hauled rations and other gear
out of the glider so the Krauts couldn't put us
completely out of business if they zeroed in on it. Then we
set up an air-ground control and a long range station
to England

Shifts were anything up to 24 hours a day. Booby
traps and unexploded bombs were everywhere. Meals
were K rations or what could be scrounged. There
were constant interruptions as wounded wandered in for
treatment. Still, messages got through, furnishing
constant liaison between delivery parties up front and
supply fields in the rear.

September found the air echelon returning from Italy
to England and limbering up for another spearheading
drive. Target was the Calais area. But again the target
was overrun—this time by armored forces of the First
Canadian Army.

This dry run finished, Wing headquarters and groups
started for France, but, before they could settle, air
echelons were back in British Midlands to join the initial
operation of Lt. Gen. Lewis H. Brereton's new First
Allied Airborne Army.

A

IRBORNE
invasion of Holland began a new era in
warfare. In Normandy and southern France, Troop
Carrier helped spearhead attacks by dropping troops
with enough supplies to hinder enemy moves during
and after the crucial beach landings. Holland, however,
saw the first direct support of an advancing army—Lt.
Gen. Miles C. Dempsey's British Second—by securing
major objectives along the path and linking these centers
into a friendly corridor through enemy forces.

When orders came for this largest of operations, elements
of the Wing and its units were in France, tents
pitched, mess and communications operating, crews and
supplies either on the continent or enroute, refueling
units waterborne. Nevertheless, the attack began on
schedule.

We carried paratroopers the first day, recalled
Lt. Kenneth McKim, twin-engine pilot from
Hackensack, N.J. It hardly seemed a war was
going on as we crossed Belgium where farmers waved
to us from fields below. Some were pitching hay while
others tried to herd the cattle which ran around like mad
as hundred after hundred of C-47s and pursuit escorts
roared overhead.

The first I knew of enemy attack was when the lead
plane of the formation ahead of us burst into flames in
mid-air and spiraled downward. We could see the
Drop Zone then, but it seemed as though we would never
reach it. After an eternity we hit the DZ and dropped
our sticks of paratroops.

Direct ack-ack hits knocked off two pararack bundles,
set both gas tanks aflame as Flight Leader Capt. Melvin
J. Parker, Blackwell, Okla., approached the target area.
Pilots on both sides advised that the fire was spreading,
suggested that he drop his troops short of the objective
and abandon ship. But he held his position in formation,
made the drop over the DZ. He remained at the controls
while his crew bailed out, then crash-landed the burning
craft. Rather than drop the men in the midst of the
enemy Capt. Parker sacrificed his life to fulfill his mission.

When both engines were knocked out after dropping
his troops, Lt. Albino Dell' Antonia, Allentown, Pa.,
was forced to land. But he was accustomed to landing
without power. He had learned to fly in one of
Mussolini's glider schools as a student in Italy from 1935 to 1939.

Unprecedented umbers of gliders followed into the
Nijmegen and Eindhoven areas behind the 'chute soldiers,
continued to reinforce the drop at Grave for several
days.

Now a new enemy arose to harry the aerial thrust—fog.
An unpredicted weather front over the North Sea rolled
a blanket of mist across the Low Countries, at times
more than 1000 feet higher than the prescribed course.
Only momentary breaks permitted hasty orientation. For
pilots, each day was a veritable classroom in weather.

With tight formation flying a near impossibility, individual
navigators assumed a new value. One of these,
Lt. Paul McPherson, Sigourney, Iowa, carried on although
a piece of shrapnel had pierced his leg. The painful
wound hastily dressed by emergency first aid, he continued
to navigate from a prone position.

"I'm going to find that LZ if I run out of gas looking,"
said 2nd Lt. Vincent Ruby, Rome, N.Y., as he started
for Holland, towing a glider. The glider load shifted in
mid-air following take-off on schedule, and Lt. Ruby
returned to the field. After the load was readjusted and
secured in place, he took to the air again but couldn't
catch up to his formation. Finding the landing area,
he released his glider safely over the target but was wounded
by intense AA fire on the return trip. Plane and crew
eventually were flown to the home base.

Heroes Are Born with Each Flight

T

HIS
was the spirit behind Troop Carrier in the Holland
thrust. Lt. Thomas Mantell, Louisville Ky., completed
his glider tow in spite of enemy flak that cut both
rudder cables and started a fire in the ammunition-filled
rear compartment.

Hostile fire knocked but one engine, hydraulic
system and all the flight instruments of the plane, but
Maj. (then Capt.) James Brown nursed the craft back
across the Channel. After cutting the good engine, he
was told to move the ship elsewhere. The engine
wouldn't start again. Remarked the Montgomery, Ala.,
flyer, "I never saw a more beautiful runway in my life
than the one we landed on."

It was the first combat flight for Co-Pilot Lt. John Alday,
Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, and the sight of anti-aircraft shells
swimming up toward the plane was new. Suddenly, just
short of the release, a burst of flak penetrated the ship.
The first pilot slumped forward. There wasn't time to
determine the extent of his injuries. His aircraft and
glider were a hazard to the rest of the formation. Lt.
Alday took over while the navigator held the limp pilot
away from the controls, but they were losing altitude fast.
Instruments no longer registered. The left engine began
to vibrate dangerously. Skillful handling brought the
glider near the assigned drop area where it made a
successful landing.

Meantime, the plane staggered back to occupied
Belgium with the vibration growing steadily worse. In
spite of greatly reduced power, Lt. Alday made an
emergency landing on a small strip without further
injury to the plane or crew. When asked about the
flight, the only comment of the crew chief, T/Sgt.
John A. Dean, Breckenridge, Tex., who administered first aid
to wounded buddies on the hazardous flight, was: "Bud,
scared ain't no word!"

Same day, Lt. Edward Hufnagle, Pittsburgh, had a close
call. During a run, a machine gun bullet struck his left
knee but failed to pierce the skin. It fell harmlessly to
the cockpit floor. He carries the bullet now as a
souvenir. Said Lt. Hufnagle: "When the bullet hit, I had the
co-pilot take over. I grabbed the Bible that Chaplain
Bob Tindell had given me and read all the way back.
I prayed all the while I was in that corridor of flak and
feel our safety was a result of prayers."

This day was the worst with ceiling and visibility
zero a short way out. Not all kept formation that day,
nor did all hit the LZ. Some flew individually
unescorted and unprotected too complete missions. Some
attached themselves to other formations. Some hit the
deck trying to find better visibility near the water. Others
tried to fly above the overcast—but all had in
mind the importance of visibility to glider navigation.
As Lt. Gerald Arons, Peoria, Ill., put it, "I think most of
our squadron had more sympathy and concern for the
glider pilots they were tugging than for themselves. All
they thought about was keeping the glider boys
in the clear."

Most flew from 20 to 75 feet above water all the way
across the Channel. Flying above an overcast meant
glider pilots would fly blind. One pilot recalled seeing
a plane and glider at house-top level skimming so low
over Antwerp they actually flew between—not over—a
pair of church steeples.

Many crews did not return. Others had story-book
experiences of ground fighting before heading back to
outfits. Col. Frank X. Krebs, Salem, Ohio, startled
his unit by appearing for dinner—after a month's
absence—dressed as a farmer.

On the ground the situation was bitterly contested,
and Wing GPs guarded prisoners, acted as liaison officers
and guides, spotted artillery fire. One glider pilot
joined a mortar crew comprising a colonel, a major and
a private.

Most of the Wing's "glider builders" hastily organized
into a ground unit under Maj. Hugh J. Nevins, Kansas
City, Mo., their senior officer, to enter the lines near
Grave when an infantry company was withdrawn for
use in another sector.

T

HE
desperate German attempt to split the ever-pressing
Allied armies had been stalled, December,
1944, but the valiant
101st Airborne Division was
surrounded at Bastogne by a ring of Tiger tanks and mobile
German guns. Ammunition and medical stocks were
depleting fast. Only supply channel left open was
Troop Carrier—and 50th Wing pilots were anxious to
get through to ground brothers who had shared the stage
with them six months before in "The Drama of D-Day."

Target was a three-mile circle obscured by the smoke
of pitched battle and burning vehicles. Briefing was
necessarily hurried, based on sketchy information. Enemy
flak guns were constantly moving. Choice of routes
was little better than a guess. Sometimes the urgency
of the situation allowed no time for cover, except for
stray fighter-bombers that might be in the area.

But this was an emergency, and supplies had to get
through! Pararacks were fitted and loaded with precious
ammunition. Door bundles were packed—to be
kicked out the open doorway over the drop area. Life
lines were established.

Second Lt. Mack Striplin, McKinney, Tex., 439th
Group glider pilot, took a load of shells "special
delivery." Flak hit his ail and wing just before he reached
the assigned area, necessitating immediate landing on
a snow-covered slope. The brakes wouldn't hold on
the slippery surface, and the glider soared off the bank
into a 15-foot drop. "Landing again, I finally brought
the glider to a stop after plowing through a steel
fence—to find myself ten yards from the battery where the
shells were to have been brought. When I landed they
had only 20 shells left. Within five minutes the
ammunition was being unloaded. In another minute, it was
being fired."

More doctors were needed to handle heavy casualties
streaming into the 101st
aid station, so 2nd Lt. Charlton W.
Corwin, Normandy, Mo., of the 440th, flew a lone CG
into the Airborne's bastion with nine volunteer doctors,
medical non-coms and more than a ton of surgical needs.
His glider and its faithful tug were escorted by a welcome
quartet of Thunderbolt fighters to insure safe
arrival of the unarmed and unarmored Douglas Skytrain
with its vital cargo. The escorting P-47s kept enemy
guns in respectful silence.

Second Lt. James Hill, Abilene, Tex., was flying
a glider behind a C-47 when heavy flak was encountered. A
heavy burst set fire to the belly of the tug ship as it
neared the landing zone. Capt. Thomas Corrigan,
Kansas City, Kan., flying directly behind the crippled
ship, saw four men bail out safely. The glider, however,
did not release as expected but stayed on the tow until,
the tug ship, running on its automatic pilot, brought
it over the proper landing zone. Lt. Hill then made
his release to land while the tug soon lost control and
spun in. The Lieutenant probably is the only glider pilot
on record who has flown over a landing zone behind
a crewless tug ship.

A Fantastic Scheme Pays Off

T

HE
saga of Troop Carrier virtually is the story of
the "Fightin' 50th." In the not so distant past,
when the Axis ruled the skies of Europe, invasions
spearheaded by airborne troops were only fantastic
schemes on paper. Much wizardry had emerged from
Wright Field, Dayton, Ohio, but when the 50th was
activated there Jan. 4, 1941, few could believe that in
three years units trained by the Wing would equal the
entire Air Force then in the U.S.

Experiments with parachute troops and equipment
were performed at Ft. Benning, Ga., where suitable
formations and drop techniques were perfected. A new
phase was added in January, 1943, with the attachment
of a provisional glider echelon to one of the Troop
Carrier Groups.

Bad weather washed out the first simulated invasion
problem of paratroopers and gliders in Missouri, but
two weeks later a double-barreled bill was presented
in western and central Nebraska.

Brig. Gen. (then Col.) Julian M. Chappell, Americus,
Ga., took over the unit early in 1943. Under his guidance
came more realistic maneuvers with the
101st Airborne Division, with
which the Wing was to work so closely
during future European assaults. The mock war
progressed from the sandy Carolina pinelands to the hills
of Kentucky and Tennessee, new techniques constantly
being added to Airborne-Troop Carrier operations.

Shots, dogtag checks, designations of beneficiary,
insurance, equipment checks and markings, physicals,
security lectures, mental exams, packing and re-packing,
and then it was goodbye to maneuvers in the States and
hello POE.

F

OR Act II the
props are slightly different—"mild and
bitter" or a spot of gin instead of keg-lined cans or
bourbon. Early winter the 50th Headquarters settled
at a "Mudlands" base while many Troop Carrier Groups
new to the ETO were processed before being passed
along to other Wings.

First overseas exercise in preparation for the initial
blow took place in December and January with Maj.
Gen. William Lee's 101st. Staged in southern England,
these maneuvers long will remain in the memory of many
a 50th Wingman as the "Misery Campaign." Reason:
insufferable cold, freezing rain, inches-deep mud.

As Groups added precision to formations, constant
modifications were being incorporated to make C-47
Skytrains readier for tasks ahead. At one base,
M/Sgt. James Case, Chicago, improvised a complete
mobile workshop from scrap metal—later augmented
by additions from captured German equipment.

But the men of the 50th always were ready to do a little
more than duty required, often for afield from their Army
specialties. During the initial Normandy mission, the
first aid of Crew Chief T/Sgt. Donovan Cavanaugh,
Muskegan Heights, Mich., brought a paratrooper wounded
over the DZ safely back to base. Two excellent jobs
of navigation to Bastogne were turned in by F/Os Roderick
MacDougall, West Acton, Mass., and Charles Long,
Jr., Mule Shoe, Tex. Ire' moo glider pilots had
picked up training on their own time between missions.

Sgt. Allan N. Saltzman, New York City, was a radar
mechanic without air crew experience. Because of the
large numbers of planes for the Holland mission, radio
operators were at a premium. Sgt. Saltzman volunteered
to accompany the flight as radio operator, successfully
handling his ship's communications. He was awarded
the Air Medal.

Superb judgment and quick thinking saved many
situations. When the instrument panel was completely
wrecked in the Bastogne run, Crew Chief Sgt. Hunter
Lohr, Pittsburgh, made a quick estimate, recommended an
immediate landing in an open area below. A check upon
landing also revealed virtually no gas in riddled tanks.

"It Will Be Flown by Us"

I

N pace
with the forward march of the Allied armies
and to keep supplies rolling in spite of Channel fogs,
the 50th moved to France. Col. Charles Young, 439th
Group CO found hangars and buildings on his new
field completely demolished, later discovered his younger
brother in the 8th Air Force was operations officer of
the B-17 Group that had done most of the damage.

Rain and mud added to the already sorry state of
French fields. A hurry call brought an airborne
engineering battalion. These veterans were old hands
at keeping runways fit. The same unit had built the
largest airfield then in France as well as the first strip
for night fighters and medium bombers.

With the Wing also went an airborne weather unit,
all its equipment transported by air to operate entirely
by radio, anywhere, anytime, independent of everyone else.

Even before the Wing settled down, orders came
through to move vital supplies to the front. In the four
weeks alone starting Sept. 24 more than 17,000,000
pounds of freight were hauled.

But volume isn't always the best standard—ability
of Troop Carrier to respond immediately to a hurry call
is more often a criterion. When a sudden cold wave
struck in mid-October, 50th Wing aircraft flew
anti-freeze to the front.

When heavy fighting for Metz left many American
wounded, overflowing front line hospitals, Troop Carrier
relieved the pressing situation by rapid evacuation to
England. According to ETO Chief Surgeon, Maj. Gen.
Paul Hawly, the action "saved many lives and prevented
an enormous amount of suffering during this emergency."

Spirit of the Wing's airmen is well demonstrated by
the way they carried on when inadequate numbers of
ground force troops were on hand to help unload. An
army group supply officer commending the men said:

Pilots and crews, waiving all formalities regarding
their place in this particular supply picture, dug in most
cheerfully and furnished much of the labor of unloading
planes. On two days, your air crew personnel did
90 percent of the unloading. This evidence of teamwork
on the part of pilots and crews in your command is
highly gratifying. May I ... thank and commend them.

This spirit isn't confined to any one class, but it moves all
the way up and down the line, among file clerks and mail
orderlies—the last being usually the most harried characters
of their units. One squadron of the 50th says
Mailman Pfc Thomas Olex, Moundsville, W. Va., stands
alone. Any hour, day or night, he will cheerfully tell
what letters have come in, when the last letter came,
help cuss out the post office, sympathize when there is
a lack of mail. He, too, is typical of the team, doing his
part of any task which may fall to the "Fightin' 50th."

This is the first chapter of the 50th Troop Carrier Wing
story. It is the development of a venture from the
unknown to a proven weapon of modern warfare—a vital
link in the choking chain Allied might has clamped around
the Axis. The future of the 50th Wing is yet to be
written. But the spirit of its men as recorded by their
pioneering exploits has assured the future's events.
Whatever the task, whatever the job, "it will be flown
by us."